Serpent's Kiss: A Witches of East End Novel (27 page)

Harold coughed. “Joanna invited me,” he said.

“Oh, of course! I’ve forgotten my manners! So glad to meet you,” replied Ingrid, thinking this must be Mother’s gay pal. Every girl had at least one, why not Joanna?

Harold nodded and Ingrid stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She went down the steps, so she could take him around the house through the patio where everyone was waiting. She peered distractedly down the street as she moved along the path.

“Is there a problem?” Harold called to her back, still waiting by the door.

Ingrid swung around. “No, not at all! I was just … expecting someone and he was supposed to be here by now.” She motioned with her head. “We have to go around this way to the living room. You know, Freya’s
cooking
!” She said the latter as if Harold knew exactly what she meant.

Joanna nearly dropped her champagne glass when she saw Harold behind Ingrid coming toward the glass panes while Killian slid the door open for them. They stepped inside, Killian welcoming them with a “Well, hello!”

Norman raised his eyebrows at Ingrid. He wasn’t expecting to meet someone his own age for his oldest daughter. But it made sense; Ingrid would want someone wise, settled, and established. The silly name suited him. Norman moved toward him, stretching out a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Matthew Noble,” he said.

Joanna, in her pearls and flowing red dress and silk scarf, rushed forward, aflutter, her face flushing as crimson as her outfit. She was racking her brain, trying to remember how this could have possibly happened. She had a vague remembrance of a phone conversation with Harold, something about his family being out of town and inviting him over for dinner. Had she actually invited him to Thanksgiving? It had been while she’d been immersed in research on Long Island witch hangings. She had been in a rush to get off the phone and back to her studies. She realized the horror of her blunder.

“Um,” she said. “Actually, Norman, this is my dear friend Harold. And Harold, this is my … um … my sort-of husband … Norman.”

“Awkward,” whispered Killian, smiling at Ingrid, who returned a half smile, half grimace. In unison, they took a step back and observed.

So much for harmony
, Ingrid thought. She had been primarily thinking of Matt while she had made her dining-room table incantations.
Shame on me for being so distracted
.

Freya ran through the living room on her way upstairs, pulling the kerchief off her head so that her wild hair came loose. “Ignore me. I’m a mess! Back down in a second!” But the only one who noticed her was Killian, who let out an appreciative snort as she trotted up the stairs.

Norman looked at Joanna, Harold looked at Joanna, and Joanna shrugged.

“Is this
the
Harold?” Norman asked.

“Sort-of husband?” Harold inquired, his face turning pink.

Joanna wrung her hands, her face turning from one suitor to the other. She had managed to bludgeon two of her birds with one stone.

“Yikes,” whispered Ingrid. Mother wasn’t going to get out of this one. The two of them continued to watch.

“Front-row seats,” Killian commented under his breath.

“Indeed,” said Ingrid, trying not to giggle.

“I can explain,” said Joanna.

“I thought this was a family dinner,” vociferated Norman.

“
It is!
” cried Joanna, scratching her hair, fluffing it out so that it genuinely appeared witchy. “Harold is like family!”

A log popped in the fireplace, like an exclamation point.

After a long silence, Harold strode toward the glass-paned door. “No, no, it’s my fault. I’m so sorry to disturb all of you. It appears there has been some mistake. Joanna, please forgive me … I did not realize I was intruding on your family dinner on this holiday.”

“Good riddance,” Norman muttered as Harold swung the glass door open and stepped out, then slid the sliding door closed.

Joanna ran after him. “Harold! Please come back! I’m so sorry! Of course you’re welcome to have Thanksgiving with us!” But it was too late. He had already stepped off the deck and seemingly vanished. She pressed her hands against the glass, then her nose. “Oh, dear,” she muttered to herself. “Norman, this is all your fault!” she snapped.

“My fault?” her sort-of husband roared.

Killian put an arm around Ingrid, looked at her, and said, “Well, that was fun. But where’s our good detective, sis?”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang.

“It’s him!” Ingrid said breathlessly, running to get the door. She opened it to find the good detective standing on the doorstep with a huge bouquet of flowers in hand.

They had gotten into quite a habit of pressing up against vertical surfaces. No sooner had Ingrid invited Matt inside the house than he cornered her up against the door, inching in close to kiss her. Her hands fluttered upward, coming to rest at his neck, pulling his face toward hers. It was wonderful, this feeling, this closeness, this warmth.

He peered into her eyes. “You’re a good kisser, Ingrid.” He bit his lip, looking down at her, then flicked his eyes back up, catching himself being entirely salacious.

She laughed. “
Really?
” It was about the best compliment she’d ever been given.

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding, widening his eyes at her. “I’m sorry I’m so late. I hope I didn’t mess anything up. I got stuck at the precinct with some boring paperwork.”

“You’re right on time.” Ingrid was actually relieved he had arrived later than intended, serendipitously missing the embarrassing parental drama. Perhaps that was how her table-setting magic had worked: they were still going to be six. Mother could be such a ditz, but she still couldn’t believe Joanna had been so forgetful as to invite a date for Thanksgiving dinner when Norman would be there.

Matt held up a bag with a bottle of wine and the huge bouquet of orange gerbera daisies. “For you.”

Ingrid took both, smiling. “My dad’s here. I’m glad you’ll get to meet him.”

“Fantastic!” Matt said as if he enjoyed meeting the fathers of the girls he dated all the time.

“He’ll love you. Don’t worry.” She took his hand and guided him through the kitchen to the living room. The atmosphere was still awkward, but Killian made up for it, coming over from the fireplace where he had chucked in a log. Norman rose from the dining table, Joanna from the couch, where they had been sulking separately.

Killian and Matt shook hands, then decided to turn it into a hug, patting each other on the back. “Good to see you, man!” Killian said, then narrowed his eyes. “Actually, should I call you detective?”

Matt laughed, brushing off the question with a hand. “Not tonight. I’m off duty.”

Killian smiled warmly.

Ingrid stepped forward. “Dad, this is my friend Matt Noble.”

“
Ah
, much better,” Norman said, reaching out a hand, while Matt glanced questioningly at Ingrid, who shrugged. Norman cuffed him on the shoulder. “Ignore that. It’s just …”

“Dad!” cautioned Ingrid.

“Never mind, nice to meet you, Matt! I’m Norman.”

Matt laughed good-naturedly. “Likewise, Norman.”

Freya was tottering down the steps in a tight red dress and high heels. Her hair was piled up onto her head, cascading down in a fountain of strawberry curls, her lips painted a bright red. She looked as if she’d never touched a pan. “Dinner’s on. Who’s carving the turkey?”

The sun had begun to set. The lights were turned off in all the rooms, the fire roaring and all the candles lit, lending an intimate old-world atmosphere to the house. The effusive praise for Freya’s cooking flowed, as did the champagne and wine. It seemed as if Harold’s visit was already a distant memory.

Ingrid had decided after all to place her parents at the opposite ends of the table. She sat Freya and Killian together on one side, and she and Matt faced them. Every time Matt slipped a hand on her thigh or knee, her face burned, and she was grateful for the dim lighting. Still, she quite liked the sensation. She had managed to clasp his hand once under the table while talking at the same time. It was probably the champagne.

At Norman’s prompting (
So how did you two meet?
), Matt was regaling everyone with the tale of his bumbling courtship of the pretty librarian. Everyone laughed. Ingrid didn’t want to cut in and break it to Matt that she hadn’t actually realized how much she liked him until after he had started dating Caitlin. How fickle she had been! But those were the days when she believed in fending off heartbreak. Eventually she couldn’t help but tell a bit of her side of the story.

“I kept making him read these god-awful-long books. You know, from that local author? The one who writes those eight-hundred-page-long ones—I mean, he writes well and should be read, but if only he weren’t so hypergraphic, his books might circulate better. And those readings he does with a gun are a bit much.”

“Oh, you’re talking about J. J. Ramsey Baker,” Freya threw in. “I fear that poor man might drink himself to death rather than shoot himself. He’s a regular at the bar, a bit of a sad sack, always going on about some old friend from college who’s shredded every single one of his books in the
New York Times
.”

Matt cleared his throat. “I have to say,
The Cobbler’s Daughter’s Elephants
, Baker’s last, did have its moments. There were pages of pure brilliance, so honest, but that one-hundred-page section on the protagonist’s”—he cleared his throat—“
hair
was a bit much.”

Everyone laughed. Then a slight gap in the conversation followed, and Freya leaned over and started making out with Killian, while the rest of the family tried to ignore them.

The door to the back terrace slid open suddenly, and everyone jumped save for Matt, who had instantly stood from his seat with a finger to his lips. He gestured for them to remain silent and seated. The floor creaked in the living room.

There was definitely someone in the house. Matt bent down, pulling up the cuff of his pants, where he kept a gun in a holster around his calf. Everyone at the table stared questioningly at Ingrid, who gave them a look and a shrug, as if to say,
Let’s indulge him
. If someone had broken in, any one of them sitting at the table could cast a binding spell and instantaneously straitjacket the intruder.

Matt held his back to the wall, the gun cocked up vertically. He was right by the archway separating the two rooms. He swung around it, and everyone rose from the table as the sounds of a scuffle ensued. They all rushed into the living room, where Matt already had the intruder prone on the floor, pinned down with a knee. The intruder was male, a tall, lanky fellow, dressed entirely in black, his head covered with a ski mask. The detective yanked one of his arms around to his back and held a gun to his side. With his face pressed to floor, the intruder let out a muffled, “Don’t shoot!”

“I thought you were off duty, Matt,” remarked Killian.

“I did, too,” he said grimly. Then to the intruder he said, “Get up!” The good detective got the man to his feet, nudging him with the gun, holding on to his wrists with his other hand. “Ingrid, can you please pull the mask off?”

“Sure,” said Ingrid, clicking over in her heels. She was quite proud of Matt for handling it all so expediently without even using the gun. She grabbed the top of the ski mask and pulled.

Everyone gawked at the beautiful face, the head of mussed blond hair like spun gold glinting in the firelight.

“Fryr?” said Joanna, rushing to him.

“Fryr!” cried Ingrid, jumping for joy, clapping her hands.

“Bless the gods!” bellowed Norman.

“Um, we call him Freddie now,” said Freya with a big smile. “Welcome home, twin!
Surprise!
”

Joanna, beside herself, sat on the couch next to her son, weeping, laughing, grabbing his face in her hands, kissing his head, touching him over and over, trying to assure herself he was really there right beside her.
Her boy
. His absence had been a knife in the heart, and now he was here, and the stabbing feeling was gone. She wouldn’t let him go ever. Norman flanked him on his other side, a hand on his knee, while Ingrid was saying, “I can’t believe it! Fryr—Freddie—you’re back!”